Silver City

by Jeff Guinn

  “They might have picked up some scent of the Apache,” Mulkins said. “We need to put this river behind us. Gabrielle, you stay mounted and I’ll lead your horse across. Then I’ll come back and Joe and I will bring the other two.”

  “I can lead my own horse,” Gabrielle said.

  “And hurt your leg even more? This is a moment for sense, not foolish courage.”

  When they were finally across, Mulkins said that they’d move up the bank just a little before striking out for the mountains. It was easy to follow the river. The water gurgled pleasantly. But when they struck out east again in the inky darkness, they instantly lost all sense of time and direction. Saint soon complained that they must be all turned around.

  “We’re going to end up back at the river,” he said.

  “If we do, we’ll just reverse course and try again,” Mulkins said. “But maybe we’re all right. Look ahead to the right. Something’s flickering. A fire?”

  “Cash and Brautigan, or the Apache?” Gabrielle asked.

  “Can’t tell. You and Joe stay put. I’ll try moving a little closer, get a better look.”

  Mulkins was a middle-aged man accustomed much more to towns than the wild. He did his best to creep softly toward the fire, but kept stumbling over clumps of brush. The dirt was still wet from the rain and when he stepped in especially wet spots that he couldn’t see in the dark, his boots made sucking noises. Sighing, he lowered his body to the ground and began crawling. Progress was slow. Finally, perhaps two hundred yards away, he saw four Apache lying by the fire. He’d surely counted five earlier—where was the other one? Hair rose on the back of Mulkins’s neck. The Indian might be behind him, ready to strike. Mulkins turned on his belly as best he could and looked around. Nothing but darkness. Well, he’d seen what he could. Now he had to get back to Gabrielle and Joe. Which direction was that? Then lightning flashed above the clouds, momentarily bathing the land in soft pink light. Mulkins couldn’t see his friends, of course, but he did briefly glimpse the mountains off to his right. He pivoted left and began crawling again. After what seemed to be hours, he felt far enough away from the Apache campfire to get to his feet. The front of his shirt and trousers were caked with damp dirt.

  In the softest voice he could manage, Mulkins hissed, “Where are you?”

  “Here,” came the reply from somewhere ahead. It was Gabrielle.

  Mulkins told them that the Apache had made camp. “That means Brautigan and C.M. must have stopped short of the mountains too.”

  “How do you know the Indians haven’t already killed them?” Saint asked.

  “The Apache seemed to be sleeping,” Mulkins said. “Had they taken prisoners, they’d still be wide awake doing bad things to them. No, they’re resting up to commit devilry tomorrow. Let’s be going, and more careful than ever. I counted four at the fire. There’s a fifth someplace. I suspect he’s keeping watch on C.M. and Brautigan.”

  —

  THEY WENT ON. Once Saint’s horse whickered loudly, and they froze in place for long minutes, afraid the Apache had heard and were on the way to investigate. Finally Mulkins said he thought they could go on.

  Shortly before dawn they felt rather than saw the mountains rising up in front of them. They swung wide left as they felt the level ground become upslope. “Brautigan and C.M. might be stopped nearby,” Mulkins warned. “Soon as it’s even somewhat light, we’ve got to pick our spot to get in here, set up for those we hope will follow.”

  “How will we decide?” Saint asked, and Mulkins was pleased he’d said we instead of you. Reluctant as he might be, it seemed Joe still considered himself part of the team.

  “Gabrielle, you might be able to tell us,” Mulkins said. “When you were with Brautigan, did he show much outdoor sense? Did he act like someone who knew his way around rugged surroundings?”

  “Not really,” she said. “He was hard and definite with people. But I think he’s only really comfortable in the city. He’s maybe less certain, in hard country like this, than even we are.”

  “Then he’s going to look for the obvious route, the one that seems shortest between and through these mountains,” Mulkins said. “We’ll look around and think like him.”

  Dawn began lightly coloring the sky. When they could see a little, Brautigan’s probable route became obvious. The mountain range was wide in length but not depth. Just to the right of Mulkins, Gabrielle, and Saint, a narrow cut bisected two mountains. The one on the right had a sprawling base that extended fully a mile, perhaps two. The mountain on the left had a relatively abbreviated, rolling slope to the north. Going east to Silver City by rounding the slope would be an option, but the cut seemed more convenient.

  “We’ll ride through it and see what’s beyond,” Mulkins said, and they did. High rock walls arched on both sides and passage space narrowed in the middle, but after fifty yards the cut opened up into a rocky canyon and then a wide valley. And, though there were more mountains on both sides, the valley itself emptied into flat land to the east. “Silver City straight ahead,” Mulkins said. “Brautigan will bring C.M. through the cut and see the rest of his way clear. We can work our way behind some of those rocks ahead, take up position. Brautigan and C.M. come out into the valley, we’ve got them covered and can see what happens from there.”

  “I have a thought,” Saint said. “We can’t fight Brautigan and the Apache too. Let’s ride hard for Silver City, tell the sheriff there that Indians are about to fall on white men back here. He could form a posse, maybe arrive before the Apache kill Brautigan and McLendon.”

  “You know that’s foolish, Joe,” Gabrielle said. “We heard it from Ike Clanton—Brautigan’s already bribed the sheriff.”

  “True,” Mulkins said. “That crooked Silver City lawman and his people get here, they’re likely to fight off the Apache and then pitch into us, all to Brautigan’s benefit. We can’t look for assistance there.”

  They rode a little farther into the valley and discovered it was crisscrossed with gullies and sudden drop-offs, some shallow, a few precipitous and as much as ten or twenty feet deep.

  “Now, this could be treacherous,” Mulkins said. “If things get this far and we’re among the crevices, watch every step you take. Some of these places offer bad falls.”

  “We need to pick a spot and get ready,” Gabrielle said. “Cash and Brautigan might come through the cut anytime.”

  “What if Brautigan chooses to go around the mountain on the left?” Saint said. “We’ll be here watching the cut, and next thing we know, we’ll look around and he’s got McLendon through the valley and approaching Silver City.”

  “If that happens, Joe, I’m going to take my rifle, ride after them, and try my damnedest to save C.M. before they reach town,” Mulkins said. “Odds and Brautigan be damned. I’ve come this far, I’m going to try.”

  “I’ll be with you,” Gabrielle said. “And you, Joe?”

  Saint shrugged.

  “Well, we’ll hope it won’t come to that,” Mulkins said. “Right now I see a promising ridge just ahead. Let’s tether the horses, climb up, and prepare.”

  28

  In the morning when he had the horse saddled, Brautigan turned back to McLendon. “Over here. Hands behind you.”

  “You’re going to have me bound as I walk?”

  “You don’t fool me. This close to the town, you’ll have fresh ideas about running.”

  “Listen, Brautigan. I know this country better than you. No white man stole that mule. It had to be Apache. They’re still around and likely to come back at us some more. On horseback, you might get away, but me, on foot and tied up, I’ll have no chance. At least let me have my hands free.”

  For the first time since he’d taken McLendon, Brautigan briefly flashed his shark-toothed smile. “You’re a clever one. But it won’t work. I don’t see any Indians.”

  “
That’s because they don’t want to be seen. I’m not trying any trick.”

  “Turn around to be tied.”

  “My right arm’s still hurt from what you did. I don’t know if I can bend it that way.”

  “Hands behind you, or suffer the consequences.”

  McLendon’s head still throbbed from the blow delivered by Brautigan on the previous day. He put his arms behind his back—the movement hurt his right elbow a little; he winced to make it seem more painful than it was—and crossed his wrists. Brautigan secured them with a short length of rope, tying the knot tight.

  McLendon said, “At least, promise me this. If there are Apache and they do come for us, kill me before they get me. Anything you might do to me is nothing compared to what they would.”

  Brautigan took another, longer length of rope from his saddlebag and said, “Stand still.” He made a loop on one end of the rope and dropped the loop around McLendon’s neck. “For the rest of the way, you’re a dog on a leash. Try to run and you’ll choke yourself.”

  “You need to worry about Apache, not me.”

  “There are no Apache. Shut up about them.” Brautigan’s inner thighs, already rubbed raw, stung badly as he swung up in the saddle. It felt as though there was gravel under his eyelids. For days he’d been riding through blowing dust. Maybe there were Apache around. Brautigan felt confident he could physically destroy any man or any reasonable number of men. Unless there were a dozen Indians, he’d handle them. This close to Silver City, all he cared about was getting McLendon into town. After that, it should be relatively easy to bring him back to St. Louis and the boss. Best of all, no more riding goddamned horses over mountains and desert.

  “Get moving, McLendon,” he said. “Straight toward the mountains.” His prisoner lurched forward. Brautigan rode a few feet behind him, keeping the rope taut around McLendon’s neck. They went directly east for about an hour. Then Brautigan told McLendon to halt.

  “This rope’s chafing my neck,” McLendon complained.

  Brautigan didn’t respond. He looked ahead at the mountains, which were perhaps two miles away.

  “Can I at least have some water?” McLendon asked. “You’ll have to hold the canteen to my mouth, unless you want to untie me.”

  “In a minute.” Brautigan studied the mountains intently. Of the two directly ahead, the one on the right was sprawling, the one on the left more conical—it reminded Brautigan of a woman’s tit. The left mountain didn’t really amount to much. Going around it wouldn’t take all that long. But it also seemed to Brautigan that there was what appeared to be a split between the two mountains, something like a narrow passage. Did it go completely through? Because if it did, that would save considerable time. If they got to Silver City early enough, maybe Sheriff Wolfe would lock McLendon in a cell and post a guard. He’d want extra money for doing it. That was all right. Then Brautigan could find a bathhouse where he could soak in a hot tub, get the dirt off himself, and after that buy some liniment to ease the raw flesh of his inner thighs. After that, he would avail himself of a beer or two, and also a hot meal. Personal comfort seldom mattered to Brautigan, but now he found himself craving it. Once he was back in St. Louis, he hoped never to visit the blasted frontier again.

  “Some water?” McLendon asked again, interrupting Brautigan’s brief reverie.

  “Not now. Look in front of us—see that sort of divide between the two mountains?”

  McLendon wearily peered ahead. “It’s what they call a cut.”

  “Whatever it’s called, you make for it.”

  “It may not go all the way through.”

  “Shut up and walk.”

  “At least keep looking out for Apache. They could be on us anytime.”

  Brautigan gave the rope leash a savage tug. McLendon emitted a strangled grunt and fell on his back, struggling for air. Brautigan let him writhe in the dirt for a few moments. Then he dismounted and hauled McLendon to his feet. He saw with some satisfaction that the yanked noose had left a raw rope burn around McLendon’s neck.

  “Not one more word about Indians. I hear such, I’ll do things to you beyond any savage’s imagination.”

  McLendon, still gasping air, doubted this was possible but didn’t dare say so. “Water,” he croaked.

  “All right, a quick sip.” Brautigan held the canteen to McLendon’s lips. “That’s enough. Now walk on toward that split, or whatever it’s termed.”

  McLendon was of two minds about how fast to walk. He didn’t want to get to Silver City. But he also didn’t want to be taken by Apache, and he was certain they were near. The only question left in his life was what horrible form his death would take. All because he’d foolishly thrown Gabrielle over for a crazy rich girl. Now McLendon had trouble remembering what Ellen Douglass looked like.

  So he walked at a medium pace. His bound hands tingled, then hurt, then went numb. For a while the sun was a problem. Its heat was blistering, and as the morning progressed it rose above the mountains ahead, its glare directly in his eyes. But when they were about a mile from the mountains, clouds began gathering, threatening and accumulating so rapidly it was as though the sky was clear one minute and dark the next.

  “Walk faster,” Brautigan growled. “That passage will provide cover.”

  “We might not make it before the storm starts,” McLendon said. His voice was raspy from the rope burn across his throat. “It could flood here fast. We need the closest high ground.”

  “We’re not stopping,” Brautigan said.

  Suddenly there was wind, strong and from the north. McLendon twisted his head in that direction and saw, to his horror, two Apache on horseback riding hard toward the east.

  “Look there!” he shouted to Brautigan, and the giant’s head swiveled. “Do you see them?”

  “They’re not coming in our direction,” Brautigan said. “They’re aimed for the mountains some distance above us, a half mile away or more. They’re just a couple savages seeking shelter. No danger at present. If they come too near, I’ll kill them. Keep moving.”

  “Two Apache could kill us both a dozen times over,” McLendon said. “I’ve fought Indians and I know.”

  Brautigan’s thighs sizzled with pain. If there was a bad storm, it might prevent them reaching Silver City that day, requiring yet another miserable night in the open and then more time on horseback. Brautigan had no patience for McLendon’s whining about Apache. When an assignment from the boss was this close to completion, when civilization, even of the roughest sort, was finally at hand, Patrick Brautigan would let nothing delay him further. The savages hadn’t even glanced at them as they raced on their ponies. In one swift motion Brautigan jumped down from his horse and clamped McLendon’s shoulder in a meaty hand. He shook the smaller man until McLendon’s head flopped back and forth.

  “Forget the goddamned Apache. Concern yourself with me. Anything else from you, the smallest aggravation, and I will stop wherever we are and I will kill you slowly. I’ll start with the small bones and progress to the big ones. You’ll hear them breaking. You’ll beg me to finish you and I’ll make it last even longer. I don’t care if the boss is disappointed not to witness it.”

  McLendon began wheezing some response. Brautigan said, “Shut up,” and let go of his shoulder. McLendon dropped to his knees. “Up,” Brautigan said, tugging the rope around McLendon’s neck. “Get to walking. I think the storm’s about to commence.”

  So it’s to be Apache instead of Brautigan, McLendon thought. At least they’ll kill him too. He stood with some difficulty. It was hard with his hands still tied behind his back. Then he began walking toward the cut in the mountains with the measured step of a resolute condemned man approaching the gallows.

  29

  Goyathlay was proud of his plan to catch and kill the white men. It offered good sport, and just enough challenge to keep the inexperienced warriors
with him happy without expecting too much of them. It was important that he brought all four back to the agency with him, demonstrating that he was an effective war leader who could avoid even minimal casualties. Beyond that, his main concern involved timing—Apache rarely engaged in coordinated attacks. But if it succeeded this, too, would burnish his credentials. Warriors from other camps flocked to Cochise because he enjoyed such a widespread reputation for daring battle strategy. Goyathlay hungered to be known for the same.

  “This is what we will do,” he told the others. It was just before dawn. “In a little while the white men will start moving again. We’ll stay far enough behind so that they won’t see us. They’re going toward their village on the other side of the mountains, so it will be easy to follow them.”

  “When do we take them?” Nantee asked.

  “This is how it will be: There are two ways through the mountains, one a narrow path between the two directly ahead, the other around one of them—not too hard, but it would take longer. The whites will want to go the short way, probably. Even if they don’t, we’ll make sure they do.”

  Tawhatela asked, “But if they get in that narrow place ahead of us and then through, how can we catch them?”

  “We’re going to be in two places. In a little while, Nantee and I will ride ahead, going around one of the mountains, so we’ll be waiting for the white men when they come out the other side of the path in between. And we know they will go that way because you, Tawhatela, and John Tiapah and Datchshaw will drive them there. With you on one end and us on the other, the whites will be trapped in between. Because the path is so small, the big one won’t have room to fight. The small one, his prisoner, probably won’t fight at all. Once we have them, we’ll find a good place and torment them. Then we’ll go back to the agency and the people will praise us as great warriors.”